Kissed a Sad Goodbye

“Gordon Finch just rang me. He said he was sure his father didn’t kill Annabelle—and then he hung up.”

“Was he ringing from his flat?”

“Probably a call box. He doesn’t have a phone.”

“We’ll try the flat first. Get in.”

She came round the car, and as she buckled herself in, he asked, “Is that all he said?”

“No. Duncan, they were protecting each other—Gordon and Lewis—but neither of them knew it. When Lewis realized Gordon hadn’t killed her, he said he should have known, and that he wasn’t going to ‘let him get away with it again.’ ”

“Let who?”

“I don’t know. I don’t think Gordon knew.”

Kincaid’s phone rang as he pulled out into West India Dock Road. He answered, then said to Gemma as he rang off, “That was Janice. Forensics just called. They’ve found a trace amount of hair and blood in a sample taken from one of the tea chests in Annabelle Hammond’s office.”

“So it looks like she was killed at Hammond’s,” Gemma said. “Who would she have met there in the middle of the night?”

“If we assume it was neither of the Finches?” He switched on his wipers as rain spattered the windscreen. “Martin Lowell? If he wouldn’t let her come to his flat, and she wanted to have it out with him?”

“We’ve had Brandy Bannister in again this morning. She hasn’t budged an inch on her statement. It looks as though Lowell’s alibi is good.” Gemma sounded unhappy about it.

Kincaid frowned. “Maybe we should look at this from another angle. Who, besides Annabelle, had access to the warehouse?”

“Reg Mortimer and Teresa, of course, but Mortimer’s the most obvious. He knew Annabelle liked to go there when she was troubled, and he desperately wanted to talk to her.”

“But if he killed her in the warehouse, how did he get her body to the park?” Kincaid asked. “We’re back to square one.” Then, as he shook his head in frustration, he remembered something. “Teresa Robbins said that since his wife died, William Hammond turned up at the warehouse at odd hours, that he couldn’t bear to let go of the business.… What if it wasn’t a case of Annabelle arranging to meet someone, but an accidental encounter.…”

“And you think William might have seen someone?”

“It’s possible,” Kincaid said slowly. “But it’s also possible that it was William who killed her.”

“William Hammond?” Gemma’s voice rose on a note of disbelief. “Her own father? The poor man was devastated—you saw him.”

“I don’t doubt that. But … everything seems to come back to William Hammond and Lewis Finch.” He told her about his interview with Irene Burne-Jones. As he negotiated Westferry Circus and headed south on Westferry Road, thunder boomed and rain began to beat against the roof of the car. “What did Hammond have against Finch? And why was Finch so determined to buy the warehouse when he knew its importance to William Hammond? Something happened in the last few months the three of them were together—William, Lewis, and Irene—that Irene isn’t willing to talk about, even after all these years.”

“It doesn’t make sense,” protested Gemma. “Why would William Hammond kill Annabelle when she’d just made up her mind to call off the deal with Lewis?”

“I don’t know. But if Lewis Finch said he wasn’t going to ‘let him get away with it again,’ what could he have meant but murder? Someone was killed in those last few months those three children were together—the children’s tutor. Irene said it was an accident.…”

“But what if it wasn’t?” said Gemma. She shook her head. “We’re missing too many pieces. Gordon must know something we don’t—”

“And I don’t think it’s very likely we’re going to find him sitting at his flat, waiting for us.” He peered through the windscreen, but the curtain of rain obscured virtually everything. “Ring William Hammond’s house—do you have his number?”

“In my notebook.” Gemma found the number and dialed her mobile. “No answer.”

“Try Lewis Finch.”

“At home?”

Glancing at his watch, Kincaid nodded. “It’s already after five.”

But Lewis Finch didn’t answer, either, and after a moment Gemma disconnected. Slowly, she said, “If it was William Hammond Lewis meant, and he thought he might find him at the warehouse …”

“It’s worth a try,” Kincaid said as a flash of lightning illuminated the long line of cars crawling down Westferry Road ahead of them. “But we’re not getting anywhere in a hurry.”

AS LEWIS PULLED UP THE MERCEDES on Saunders Ness, the square bulk of the Hammond’s warehouse was scarcely visible in the blinding rain. His hands shook as he lifted them from the wheel. He was sweating and nauseated, as powerless to stop the flow of memories now as he had once been to stop Freddie Haliburton.…

He had passed the night in a black fury unabated by exhaustion. Unable to bear the thought of seeing anyone, or speaking to anyone, he had started on his chores in the barn without going up to the Hall for breakfast. He didn’t know what he would do if he saw William—he didn’t even want to think about William—but Irene was not so easy to avoid.

She came looking for him, as he knew she would, gliding silently through the barn door and stopping in the shaft of sunlight that fell from the high window. “Lewis? What happened to you last night? Why didn’t you come to breakfast this morning?”

“Just go away, Irene. I don’t want to talk to you,” he said roughly, turning back to the hay he was